


Words Unspoken

by Somedrunkpirate



Series: Words [1]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Eames, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Kidnapping, M/M, Major Character Injury, POV Eames, Sexual Content, They both need a Hug, descriptions of violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-17
Updated: 2017-07-17
Packaged: 2018-12-03 09:43:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11529645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Somedrunkpirate/pseuds/Somedrunkpirate
Summary: A body drops to the ground without a sound. The snow grows red underneath him, only just visible in the early morning light, but Eames doesn’t stop and watch. He moves on to the next guard. Holds, breathes, counts and shoots.





	Words Unspoken

**Author's Note:**

> First Bingo fic! It covers 4 squares, I put them in the end notes. It turned into an attempted Hurt/Comfort fic, but it's angsty because I have reputation to keep up. ;) 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!
> 
> Thank you Nonnie and Brookebond for the self-sacrificing beta reads <3

There is an icy breeze blowing over where Eames is laying down on his stomach in the snow, but he does not shiver.

He breathes, counting the silence between his heartbeats and lowering his sniper rifle a milimetre until he finds the perfect aim.

The perfect shot.

A body drops to the ground without a sound. The snow grows red underneath him, only just visible in the early morning light, but Eames doesn’t stop and watch. He moves on to the next guard. Holds, breathes, counts and shoots.

The sun has fully surfaced by the time the snow is littered with bodies and dyed in blood.

Eames huffs a breath in his hands, warming his frigid fingers before he pulls gloves over them. _Leather gloves that felt familiar the moment he wore them for the first time. Arthur smiling over his steaming cup of hot chocolate, smug that he found the perfect Christmas gift and showing it._

Eames disassembles the rifle in quick, practiced movements.

He has a minute before the guards inside will notice the cemetery on their doorstep; exactly 45 seconds to kill the first one who could raise the alarm. Eames stands with his bag full of armor and disassembled gun, and slides down the ladder of his make–shift sniper's nest. He knows a tall guard will appear next to the window in 30 seconds. He couldn’t make the shot from above but he can from the side, through the door two guards left open. They had their last smoke before Eames shot them.

Eames lies down, clicks the gun back into place. Breathes. Shoots.

The guard goes down with a groan.

Not loud enough to alarm the others, but he has to work quick.

Eames leaves his rifle but takes his bag, shuffles through the tunnel he’d dug beforehand until he reaches the other side of the fence. A useless fence that couldn’t keep anyone out if it weren’t for the motion detection sensors at the top – only at the top, hence the tunnel.

Another two guards stand before the entrance of the garage, but Eames makes quick work of them. Avoiding their gaze by using the bush and his camouflaged gear to advantage, he shimmies closer. He shoots the one at the far right, attracting the attention of the left, but before he can make a sound Eames jumps out from the bush and lodges a knife through his throat, cutting until he collapses, drowning in his own blood. The pair stare unseeingly in the distance now life has left them and Eames represses the all encompassing urge to spit his disgust at their corpses. It wouldn’t help. DNA traces.

Eames squats down instead and takes a keycard from the guard. He opens the garage door with it, but doesn’t enter the room. Any time now, they will notice the bodies and call in a search. They will lock the place tight with guards and defend their treasure while searching for the threat.

But.

There are two treasures in this house.

One is a quantity of blackmail more than any criminal or agent has ever seen in their years of work, combined. A collection that influences the many political and economical going on’s of the world and might be one of the most important driving forces of power in this age.

The other treasure is Arthur.

Eames is planning on the fact that if there is a threat, the collection will take the priority above some criminal they’ve been keeping in their basement for an unnamable amount of time.

So Eames doesn’t enter the garage – from which he could sneak into the control room – disrupt the camera’s monitoring the collection and hack into the mainframe to release the vaults alarms and kill his way through the halls until he reaches the most lucrative heist any thief could dream of.

No.

He turns around and traces the building’s edge until he finds an innocent looking door, that opens with a well placed kick and a lucky shot, and goes to find something so much more important.

Eames hugs the walls. He chokes the first guard he gets his hands on, the moment the alarms go off at the other side of the property. They found the bodies. They’re scrambling to find the thief that doesn’t want to steal what they think he wants to steal.

Eames isn’t coming to steal anything.

He’s here to get his husband back.

––

At the last possible second. Everything goes to shit.

The sick thing is; Eames had planned for this.

He’d known that the probability of the two of them coming out of there without needing immediate emergency attention was nil. So he had contacted some folks, called in some favors, and within seconds there was an ambulance racing them of to a blacksite medical facility. Ex–military, criminally owned. You’d have to have an unlawful medical facility in a city with this much crime.

The only reason Arthur has a chance to survive this, is because Eames prepared for it.

Nonetheless, he is shocked that it happened. That it’s happening. The reality of Arthur dy–

Losing him–

No. Please–

Arthur is going into cardiac arrest. People are around him, pressing against the wound in his neck, shocking his heart into beating.

Eames’ world falls away underneath him.

In the beeping of the machines he stares at his hands. At the gloves covered in Arthur’s blood. It shines in the artificial light and Eames watches it drip and drip and drip–

“Bloodtype! What is his blood type!”

Eames answers with the correct answer, but he isn’t able to hear his own voice. He must’ve said something, because the shape before him leaves.

The blood stops dripping. There isn’t enough of it. Eames smears his hands against his pants, covering it in red streaks. They burn. There isn’t a logical reason that they do, but they burn into Eames’ skin and Eames wants to rip his trousers off. He wants to push all the people away and place himself over Arthur, covering him, holding him in his arms. Swallow his pain and his soul and replace his suffering. Eames would die, then and there, if it meant Arthur would get to live.

Arthur needs to live.

The rest doesn’t matter.

––

“Darling, dove. I would appreciate it if you woke up for me. It’s been days, love. I’m getting worried.”

“The doctors say this is standard procedure, for someone with your level of neglect. They’re feeding you through a tube, it looks ridiculous. Like a thin pale snake decided that your nose would be the best place to hide, but forgot to pull its tail in. When you’re awake, I’ll make breakfast for you. Real food. I know you love fruit salads and smoothies but would you let me make you some pancakes too? You need to get your healthy weight back, you know, so I’m allowed to smother you in sugary treats. And eventually you’ll be able to drink coffee again, you hear that darling? Coffee. I bet they didn’t give you coffee in there. Wake up for me love, I’ll bring you coffee.

“I missed you so much. I still miss you. I’m so afraid you’ll never wake up. Prove me wrong, darling. Please. Open your eyes.”

“The surgeon is having an affair with one of your nurses. I’m debating if I should threaten him with it. If his wife finds out, he’ll get nothing out of the divorce. She is the head of some American sports company. He’ll lose his luxury life. He doesn’t tell me enough about you, about what you went through, about how long you’ll stay like this. If you even will survive. Maybe, if I threaten him, he’ll tell me. The other possibility is that he’ll let you die in revenge, and I can’t take that chance. But darling, please, wake up for me. I’m getting desperate.”

“One of the nurses took pity on me and told me that they don’t know if you’ll wake up. That they aren’t saying anything because they are waiting just like I am. We all are waiting for you. You don’t need to wake up yet, just give me a sign that you’re going to, eventually.”

“I think I’ll be fine, if this is all there is to life. I won’t leave you. I didn’t think I’d ever see you again, but now I can. I can see you breathing, and I don’t care it’s from a machine. You’re breathing and that’s all I care about now.”

“The nurse gave me the clothes you were wearing, when I got you out. I found something in a hidden pocket. I’m not going to read it. I don’t want to invade your privacy like that. I’m not going to. Please wake up so you can tell me what happened, I don’t need to read it then.”

“I don’t know how long it’s been, love. Maybe a week, or two, I think more. I don’t feel anything anymore. The only thing I’m doing is trying not to read your notebook, but I think I can’t restrain myself. Wake up now, and I won’t read it. Wake up, Arthur.”

–––

_New notebook. Betrayed in Venice. They’re following me across the world. This is more than that job. Old notebook is in the safe. I don’t know what they want from me, but I don’t have time to find out. Destroyed my phone._

_Black SUV. Spotted three times in two days. Lost it by going through the city centre. Leaving Chicago for safehouse 4b32._

_4:50 pm._

_Tall man, blond hair, crooked nose. Wide shoulders, black jacket, red nikes. (Who the fuck wears nikes while doing surveillance. What kind of idiots are on my tail?)_

_6:20._

_Second man has joined, long curly hair. I’m surrounded. Stuck in a cafe. I should have known this safe house had been tracked down. Nowhere is safe._

_7.40._

_I can’t contact Eames. I haven’t contacted him in three weeks. Unsafe. He’ll be worried._

_8.50._

_Escaped the area. Nikes and Curly lost. There is a new guy, I think. I don’t know. Paranoia?_

_11.40. In train. All my aliases are made. Used the last one, oldest one. Eames should be able to find me with it. I need back up. This is too big. I’m afraid he’s being chased too._

_11.45._

_Curly is on the train._

_I’m fucked._

_\--_

_I don’t know how much time has passed._

_\--_

_T_ _he facts:_  
  
_I’m in a basement turned into a makeshift prison, a room divided in two with a glass wall. There is a mattress on the floor and a toilet in the corner. There are medical supplies on the other side of the room. Machines to monitor heart rate and blood pressure. I see no knives, surgeon or otherwise._  
  
_This doesn’t seem very professional, but there is big money in this. I might be their first._  
  
_I can’t remember how I got here. I don’t have my totem._  
  
_I’m being drugged with gas. I think every night, but I have no way to confirm. It makes me tired and woozy, unable to do more than observe and write._  
  
_Food is automatically pushed through the wall. It’s barely enough to live on._  
  
_They want to weaken me._  
_It’s working._  
  
_They let me keep my trousers. A mistake. I kept my notebook hidden, and a pencil. Not that I can do a lot with it. But it tells me that they are not used to this. Experienced kidnappers wouldn’t let me keep anything._  
  
_(I don’t know if this is reality. I think it is)_  
  
_Only human contact is Curly. He came once, to take a picture of me. He asked me to confirm my name. He called me Arthur. I didn’t react, but he didn't seem to care. He did something with his phone and walked out again. Probably sending a confirmation to the client._  
  
_We’re waiting on something. Someone._  
  
_I don’t know why I’m here._

_\--_

_Curly comes back every once in awhile. He only looks at me for exactly five minutes and leaves again. I think he comes once a day now. I do not speak to him. He doesn’t ask anything anymore._

_There is a guard standing right outside my prison room. Curly talks to him before he comes in to stare at me. He called him Tom once. I don’t know if that is his real name. Tom didn’t respond with a name, so Curly stays Curly._

_\--_

_I found a way to lessen the effects of the gas, and I think I’m getting used to it, to some extent. I have more control back, despite the gas. This is progress._

_\--_

_Curly gassed me before he came in this time. He opened up the glass divide. It slides to the side with a key card. Important information._

_I think I know why Curly comes around. Fuck, I did not need this on top of the starvation._

_\--_

_Curly is not going to try again. I almost bit his dick off._

_Now I know that they are not allowed hurt me. Or at least not permanently._

_I’m valuable._

_I’m valuable._

_I’m valuable._

_\--_

_Curly is back to staring again. It’s tempting to smile at him and snap my jaw. I don’t. I don’t need broken bones._

_\--_

_I’m starting to miss the effects of the gas. I’m more conscious. I feel the the ache in my stomach, the pain in my sides. The headaches. The eternal time of nothing. I’m trying to lose myself in my memories. They’re all I’ve got._

_\--_

_Curly has missed two automatic gassings. Maybe the thing we’ve waiting for has arrived._

_\--_

_I’m so fucking hungry. I’m so hungry. I’m so fucking hungry._

_\--_

_Eames must know that I’m in a situation. He might think I’m dead. I know he’s looking for me._

_\--_

_What if he’s here too. What if Eames is in a room next to me. Oh god. What if the wait is whatever they are already doing to him. What if he’s dead._

_Eames can’t be dead. Eames can’t be suffering. Eames is okay._

_Please, my love. I need to you to save me. I need you to be okay._

_\--_

_Nikes is still wearing nikes. I’m glad some things are consistent in this small world._

_I wonder if he’s going to make the same mistake as Curly made. I hope Curly warned him. I think I’m too tired to put up much of a fight now._

_\--_

_The wait has ended. Nikes dragged a PASIV into the medical part of the room. He prepared it and left. Then the gas came. Heavier than I’m used too. I can’t remember anything after that._

_Except something to do with a dream, to do with a vault. Penrose steps and paradoxes._

_I didn’t get food today. It’s hard to think._

_I can’t think._

_Why are they doing this._

_Eames. I love you. I love you. I love you._

_\--_

Eames drops the notebook to the ground and turns around, puking into a potted plant with vigor.

He can’t read this. He can’t stop reading this.

A sick realisation makes him heave again, despite nothing coming out. Arthur went through this. Arthur experienced all of this, and everything Eames’ hasn’t read yet. Even if he heals from the cut in his neck, and the strain to his body, and the drugs out of his system. He’ll never be the same again, he’ll never be fully whole again.

And Eames loves him, loves him so much that he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care. He’ll always love Arthur, it doesn’t matter. But Eames knows Arthur, and Arthur might not love himself anymore, after this.

Arthur is a bloody perfectionist on the job, but that’s nothing compared to what he expects of himself. It will not be easy for him to accept his weaknesses, to acknowledge his scars and live with them. He’ll need Eames to help him through it.

A nurse cleans up the puke and pats Eames’ shoulder, but doesn’t speak. They know he doesn’t talk to anyone except Arthur. It doesn’t matter.

When the nurse leaves, Eames resumes reading. Pushes through Arthur’s pleading, Arthur’s confusion, Arthur’s pain. Because Eames needs to know this, he needs to be strong, so he can help Arthur the moment he’s awake.

\--

Eames dreams of Arthur screaming his name while Nikes pushes a knife to Arthur’s neck.

He drowns in dark ink. Arthur’s words trail his hands and arms, tattooed underneath his skin, itching and crawling until Eames shouts.

_Darling! Please! I need you to save me! I need you to be okay!_

_\--_

Eames can’t stop reading the notebook. He’s read it four times now, etching the words into his mind until Eames can mouth along with the scars, the tang taste of blood in his mouth. It’s penance. He should’ve saved Arthur earlier. He should have prevented it. He deserves the pain it brings him. It’s all his fault.

\--

Eames falls asleep with Arthur’s limp hand in his hands. He’s always holding it, pausing only for trips to the loo that regrettably aren’t skippable. The nurse brings Eames his food three times a day. She started cutting it up in little pieces when she noticed Eames would only eat with one hand, refusing to let go of Arthur’s with the other. Eames can’t be bothered to feel ashamed about it.

Eames holds Arthur’s hand for two reasons. One, it’s the only thing that keeps Eames from fading away. Two, any little movement Arthur could make in the future could start in his hands, and Eames wants to know the second Arthur starts moving.

So Eames is sleeping with his head on Arthur’s mattress, hunched over in his chair, and wakes when Arthur’s hand suddenly tightens.

First, it doesn’t register. It feels like a dream. Passive and unmoving is constant, this is an anomaly. Eames stares at Arthur’s trembling hand in disbelief, barely remembering to breathe.

A machine starts beeping. Eames tears himself out of his frozen state yells for a doctor, for a nurse, for _anyone._

Arthur is trembling all over, his neck is shaking and Eames reaches over automatically, caressing his jaw, trying to calm him down like he’s done so many times. But this is different. This is wrong.

Arthur starts coughing and his eyes flutter and Eames’ heart drops.

There is commotion all around them, but Eames isn’t there. Not really. All of his attention is glued to Arthur’s eyes, still closed but blinking quickly and faster until he finally opens them.

He stares unseeing at the ceiling.

Arthur is awake. He’s awake.

“Darling,” Eames chokes out, trying to get closer, but he’s being pushed away, dragged out of the room by force. There are more people rushing into the room and Eames is pushed against the wall in the hallway. Eames fights. But he’s too tired, too overwhelmed with fear and relief and the vision of Arthur’s eyes opening that he gives up easily. The big nurse that is still holding his arms is saying something, but Eames can’t hear it. His knees buckle and he collapses to the ground. The pain of the impact shakes him. He takes a ragged breath. His eyes sting.

Arthur. Please.

“They’re taking good care of him, Eames. He woke up choking on the breathing tubes. He’ll be okay,” someone murmurs. “You can’t be in there with him yet. I’m sorry.”

“Please, I need to see him. I need to know he’s okay,” Eames pleads to whoever is talking. His vision is blurry, but he finds a shirt with his hands and he crumples his fists in it, shaking the person denying him access.

“You can’t. Not yet. I’m sorry,” she says, and Eames finally recognizes her. It’s the Nurse. The only one who seemed to give a fuck about him. Eames is suddenly overrun with betrayal. She’s withholding Arthur from him. He needs to be close to Arthur. Arthur needs him.

Eames wishes he had a gun.

Eames wishes he had the energy to strangle her.

The Nurse smiles, naive to Eames’ thoughts, and pats his shoulder companionably. “I’ll let you know the moment anything changes. I’ll sneak you in as soon as possible.”

Eames looks at the door where Arthur is hidden behind. It feels like he’s kidnapped all over again. “He needs me.”

The Nurse nods. “He needs medical attention now, but he’ll need you soon enough.”

She trades a glance with the big nurse before leaving. Eames watches her open the door and walk in, Arthur’s hidden by a team of doctors. The big nurse behind him grunts and Eames knows that if he tries to stand up and make a run for it, he won’t get far.

So Eames holds still, his eyes never leaving the door, trying to hear what’s happening in the other room.

Eames closes his eyes and hears Arthur scream his name. He doesn’t know if it’s real or not.

He doesn’t know what would be better.

\--

Despite his best efforts, Eames falls asleep in the hallway. It’s like his body has been running on fumes and waiting on Arthur to wake was what kept him upright. But now that Arthur opened his eyes, Eames’ exhaustion overwhelms him.

Sleep is a deep escape from the suffocating worry that’s haunting him. Arthur opening his eyes doesn’t mean he’s not dying right this second.

Eames wakes to the nurse holding a tray with soup and a bottle of water before his nose.

“They’re going through the last tests. Arthur is not fully conscious yet, but he’s reacting to stimuli. Eat the soup and I’ll let you in after.”

Eames doesn’t argue. He grabs the bowl and drinks the whole thing without tasting it, without wincing at the burn down his throat. He drinks the bottle of water quickly after and stands.

“Let’s go,” Eames says, his voice scratchy and unused.

The nurse doesn’t comment on his eagerness. She has some sense after all.

When Eames walks into the room, for one terrifying second, it seems like nothing’s changed. Arthur is still lying in his hospital bed, his hair too long on one side and shaved away at the other, a bandage still wraps around his neck.

His eyes are still closed.

But quickly, Eames notices differences.

Arthur’s breathing tube is gone and the machine is set to the side. The bandage has been changed and a brace has been added, to prevent Arthur from moving his neck to much. He’s lying differently too, his hands aren’t stuck to his sides but they’re draped loosely on his chest, clutching the blanket with one hand.

Eames takes a hitching breath.

Arthur doesn’t look like he’s being chased by death. He’s sleeping.

He’s frowning, making him look more frightened than peaceful. But any emotion is worlds better than the motionless dread that had been surrounding him for weeks. His breath is coming faster than normal, slightly irregular, imperfect. He breathes on his own, not aided by machine.

Eames moves toward him carefully, afraid to disturb his rest or to break this dream. This unreality. Eames doesn’t know what he did to deserve this, but he might be getting Arthur back, alive.

That thought is what breaks Eames’ care and he collapses next to Arthur’s bed, kneeling next to it and trying to sob as quietly as possible. He lowers his head to the mattress and clings to the bed railing, trying to stop himself from holding Arthur’s hands. He doesn’t want to wake him up, now that Eames knows he can. He wants him to be healthy, and rest, and never leave Eames again.

Eames doesn’t know how long he stays there, breathing until his eyes stop tearing. His back hurts, his knees ache, and Eames couldn’t care less. For the first time in months he feels something akin to hope.

A hand rakes through his hair. The sensation strange and familiar at once. The fingers trace the crook of his neck to over his right ear, before gentle fingers reach his jaw and tilt it up and up until Eames sees Arthur softly smiling down at him.

Eames loses his breath all over again.

Arthur hums and smiles a little more, his eyes shining in unshed tears.

“Oh, darling,” Eames chokes out and he reaches out for Arthur’s hand. He twines their fingers together and watches as Arthur squeezes, caressing his thumb over Eames’ palm.

The movement. Arthur’s moving.

Eames looks up again, and Arthur is still smiling.

“Darling,” Eames says again, unable to voice any of the thousand thoughts rummaging through his mind. “ _Darling._ ”

Arthur understands though, because he nods and tugs Eames nearer. He’s weak but Eames goes willingly so it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. Arthur is smiling and breathing and he’s alive.

“I thought I lost you,” Eames murmurs, carefully against Arthur’s chest. “I thought I lost you.”

“You didn’t.” It’s barely a whisper, more a rattling breath, but hearing Arthur after all this time breaks something in Eames’ chest and at once he releases the tension he’s been carrying for months.

Arthur resumes petting Eames’ hair. Eames closes his eyes.

It’s not over. They’re both ruined after everything that happened. Arthur will need to heal, relearn himself, relearn life, and Eames will do everything in his power to help him through it. He’s had his freak-out. After this, he’ll be strong. He’ll be the stability Arthur needs from him.

But for now, he’ll let Arthur comfort him.

“I love you,” Eames says quietly, his heart aflame; finally being able to say these words to a listening ear.

Arthur hums. “I love you, too.”

Eames’ eyes are wet again, but he doesn’t care. He’s too happy to care.

\--

The next few days are slow in their sweetness. Eames revels in the fact that Arthur is awake, alive and _reacting_ , and doesn’t much care about the hardships that plague them just yet.

Arthur’s throat is raw from the tube so he’s instructed to spare his voice, but no one said Eames couldn’t talk to Arthur, so he does. He talks about how he realised Arthur was missing, how he spent weeks looking for breadcrumbs until he finally found Arthur’s message on the train.

Eames glosses over the details after that.

He had traced Nikes to the house Arthur was being held in and spent weeks watching and observing because he knew that if he fucked it up, Arthur would die. He regrets every single minute he spent waiting because he could’ve been earlier, he could’ve tried earlier, but Arthur doesn’t need to know all of that, not really, not now.

Eames continues with giving him the information he’s been waiting for, with his frowny impatient face. Eames tries not to flinch as he explains the medical complications, the consequences of the neglect, the knife to his neck. How the doctors don’t know what the effects of the continued gassings will be, though they theorized that the duration of his coma had something to do with those drugs. Arthur pales as Eames talks.

“The doctors don’t know about the somnacin, but they tested for narcotics and you were full of them,” Eames says quietly.

Arthur nods, understanding.

“Do you know what kind of somnacin they used? How often they used it?”

Arthur shakes his head, and Eames grimaces.

Then he sighs, and drops his head in his hands. “Do you want to know why they did what they did now or later?”

There is the sound of scratching sound for a second, and something lightly taps on the top of his head.

Arthur has a notepad in his hands and turns it to Eames.

_I have my theories, but we’ll talk when I can actually talk._

Eames smiles. “Of course, darling.”

A silence falls, and it makes Eames a little nervous. He’s been in silences for too long for his liking. But he doesn’t know what to talk about, he’s lost the casual touch he needs to fill a silence. He used to be able to talk about anything and everything, but he doesn’t really _want_ to talk. He wants to listen to Arthur. He wants to stay quiet, losing himself in Arthur’s voice. The last time Arthur spoke to him still haunts him to this day.

Arthur had called him just before the Venice job blew into pieces.

“ _I miss you_ ,” he’d said. “ _It’s been too long, just us together. We should take a vacation some time. I think it’s been since the honeymoon.”_

Eames had laughed and teased Arthur about the impossibility of vacations; for a vacation you’d actually have to stop working and Arthur never really does.

Arthur had laughed too, but suddenly turned serious in the way he does when he thinks Eames is being too blasé about what they have together.

“ _Eames,”_ he’d said. “ _You know I’ll stop working and spend time with you if you asked me, right? The only reason I don’t is because you don’t ask me, not because you’re less important to me than work. You’re both important, but you have the right to ask for a break anytime.”_

Eames doesn’t remember what he’d said in response, but he does remember the flood of adoration that had brought him. Arthur can still surprise him with his affection after all these years, and it floors Eames all over again.

“ _I would drop this job right now, if you wanted me to,”_ Arthur had continued with a smile.

Eames had smiled too, and assured him that that wouldn’t be necessary, but that he would think about the vacation, that it sounded nice. They could decide when they saw each other again.

Eames is sure they said their goodbye’s afterwards, with I love you’s and be safe’s, but he still remembers that offer as the last thing Arthur said to him.

“ _I would drop this job right now, if you wanted me to.”_

It was a way it could’ve gone differently, could’ve gone better. Eames could’ve avoided all of this suffering with one word. One sentence. One decision that would’ve changed it all.

_Yes, darling. I miss you. Leave the job, come home safe to me. We could go anywhere you want to go._

The universe is taunting him still, and Eames doesn’t know how to fix it.

He doesn’t even know how to fill a silence anymore.

But he doesn’t have to, because Arthur catches his hand in his own and squeezes. The emotion in his eyes is worth more than any collection of words could have said.

_I love you. We’re going to get through this. I trust you. I love you._

_\--_

Slowly, Arthur gets a little stronger; his voice starts to come back and he sleeps less during the day. The feeding tube has been replaced with hospital food in tiny bites, and silences have been replaced with soft murmurings.

Eames feels like he’s walking on eggshells most of the time as they talk. He doesn’t want to pressure Arthur into talking about his experiences, and he’s sick of guilt because he knows most of it already through the notebook, and although Arthur starts to write to him in it part way through, it still sits wrong with him.

But he doesn’t want to throw his worries at Arthur, burden him with his selfish emotions and waste the little energy Arthur has on him instead of himself. So he keeps quiet, lets Arthur lead most of the conversation. Neutral topics, like what Eames discovered about the doctors, the quality of the food, what Arthur would love to eat again. The latter wasn’t that neutral, because Arthur tensed at the realisation that he couldn’t eat what he wanted when he wanted, just yet. No one will never hear him complain about a thing, but Eames knows he’s bothered by the restrictions and would fare better once they were home.

Home.

They have to assume home – including all of their safe houses in the US – is compromised. They might not even be able to be anywhere in the States until they’re sure Eames’ actions were enough of a warning to discourage them from trying again. Arthur had mentioned in his notebook that they had followed him internationally, so Eames isn’t even sure if outside the States is safe.

What Arthur needs is stability and comfort, familiarity if they can manage it. But they’ll need to lay low somewhere they’ve never been before, and Eames can’t think of anywhere right now.

It takes a day before he remembers that he can actually ask Arthur about it. That Arthur is with him and can give his own insight and input in the situation.

_Eames had been used to working in a team, in a set of two minds that thought alike but aligned in such a way that they could catch the perspective the other couldn’t see. The worst thing about having to try and find Arthur in the hellish haystack that is the world, is having to do it without Arthur thinking alongside him._

And Arthur, lovely genius pointman Arthur, already has a city lined up, and a plan written out.

Eames sighs and smiles and his heart aches because he’s missed this. He’s missed the plans and the idea’s and the working together as a team and he’s going to have it again. Arthur recovering is just another job they’ll get through together. Work hard and reap the profits, with a little fun in the meantime. It’s going to be okay, they’re going to be okay.

“Utrecht,” Arthur says with a smile. “I was thinking Utrecht.”

Eames laughs. “What or who is ‘Utrecht’? I don’t even know if you’re pronouncing it right.”

“I am. Utrecht is a city in the Netherlands. It’s smaller than Amsterdam, and has less notoriety. Even if they trace us to the Netherlands, they probably won’t think of Utrecht.”

“Have you ever been?” Eames asks curiously.

“Once, when I was younger, on a trip through Europe with my family. It’s untraceable, of course,” Arthur answers.

“I wouldn’t doubt it, darling,” Eames says. Utrecht, familiar and small. It sounds like exactly what they need. “I’m in if you are, love. I would follow you to the end of this world and beyond.”

Arthur rolls his eyes but his dimples show anyway. Eames catches them in his hands, gently tracing them with his thumb, and slowly, ever so slowly, he leans in and kisses Arthur.

It’s not the first kiss since Arthur woke up, but it’s every little bit as transcendent. Eames tries to pull back; he keeps them brief to not overwhelm Arthur, but Arthur chases him and deepens the kiss. Eames sighs into it, and lets everything go for one moment. The worry, the fear, the debilitating urge to be careful. He loses himself in Arthur groaning and biting on his lower lip, feels the heavy tongue dipping in and out and the heat of it expands until Eames shivers.

Eventually, they calm down, a little, both realising there are many reasons not to get too heated, one of which is their location. They trade soft kisses for a little while, hands intertwined. Arthur has almost pulled Eames into bed, so he grins and lies down fully, wrapping himself around Arthur.

“Cuddling in a hospital bed,” Arthur says, “What has our marriage has come to?”

“If you wanted normal, you shouldn’t have married me,” Eames quips.

“A wise man once said: “No take backsies.” So I’m afraid it’s too late. I’m stuck with you.”

Eames has Arthur talking warm by his side, joking and laughing, and can’t do anything other than smile. “Too bloody right you are. You’ll never get rid of me. I’ll always find you.”

Eames closes his eyes. He doesn’t expect a response.

But then Arthur says, so softly he almost misses it, “Thank God for that.”

\--

It’s another week until Arthur’s released, and Eames spends the time alternating between staring at Arthur lovingly and organizing their lie-low in Utrecht. (He’s mostly kicked into doing things by Arthur who rolls his eyes when he catches Eames staring at him. But Eames thinks he’s allowed, considering.)

When they leave, Arthur gets a series of instructions that could fill a whole dissertation and make Eames dizzy, but he stays and listens because that’s the least he can do.

The airport is nerve wracking but anti-climactic to say the least. Eames’ newly forged passports work perfectly and the airport lady smiles at them, wishing Arthur well when she notices the bandages and the crutches.

The plane is another brand of hell. The doctors hadn’t found anything that could point to brain damage but you never know the effects until you experience them. But Arthur stays calm, casually reading a French paper like nothing really happened. It worries Eames. Arthur’s been, not numb, but kind of emotionless, since he woke up, and Eames doesn’t know how to pull him out of it.

They land, get a taxi, and drive off to the city centre of Utrecht. Arthur falls asleep along the way, almost giving Eames a heart attack.

The house Eames hired is old and thin in true Dutch fashion. Eames suspects the thing is older than the US to start with. It lines one of the smaller canals of Utrecht, avoiding the main tourist area and shopping stream of the city, hiding between hipster coffee shops and artsy stores.

It’s late when they arrive, so only a soft murmur of people walking the streets disturb them as they enter the house in silence. Eames flicks on the lights, and takes the place in. The house is way more open inside than the exterior suggests. It’s bigger too, the room widens as it goes away from the street. It has only a few scattered pieces of furniture in the room, an old sofa and a bookcase, but for Eames, the prospect of filling it with their own things fills him with joy.

The kitchen is fully complete and modern, hidden way behind the thin staircase that looks like a health hazard so steep. Wordlessly, Arthur and Eames decide to walk the stairs, carefully. Eames helps Arthur up most of the way; if he’s annoyed by the support he doesn’t mention it.

They walk into a spacey main bedroom, open and airy again, with a few windows looking over the street and two big ones looking into their tiny garden at the back of the house. There is a small balcony peeking over it, just enough to place a small table and a chair or two.

The bed looks luxurious and soft, and Eames catches Arthur looking longingly at it. Eames comes up behind him, and murmurs, “After all this fun and exciting travel, I could do for a twelve hour nap. Join me?”

Arthur turns around in his arms, not fooled for a second, but smiles and nods. That’s all the thanks Eames needs.

“There is a bathroom by the staircase,” Arthur says. He doesn’t ask for help, but Eames knows what he needs of him.

“Let’s go, darling,” Eames hums.

So Eames helps Arthur replace his bandages. He can’t stand too long on his right leg, so he finds a plastic chair in the living room so Arthur can shower a little. He can’t wash his hair yet. Eames is still haunted by the strict order of avoiding all water near the neck wound, told repeatedly by Nurse. But Eames knows he might be able to find a way to wash Arthur’s greasy hair tomorrow, with the help of a bowl and an abundance of towels.

For now, the bare minimum will have to do. Arthur is too weak to wash himself much, drowsing in his seat. Eames doesn’t mind doing it for him, and it is a testament to Arthur’s exhaustion that he doesn’t protest once.

There is nothing sexy about washing someone who’s unable to do himself out of pain and tiredness, but there is something intimate about it. A type of trust that only reinforces Eames’ will to stay and do everything he can to help Arthur. Arthur watches him through hooded eyes as he soaps up his skin, trailing kisses over the places that have just been cleaned. Eames can see the tension seep out of Arthur. He grimaces less when Eames traces the edge of a yellowing bruise or a red cut. Some of the superficial wounds have already healed, but Arthur’s body is so weakened it takes way longer than it usually does. He’ll have some bruises for months to come, and many scars that won’t ever leave him.

Arthur never shied away from being naked before, and doesn’t do it now either. But Eames wonders if that is more practicality than actual comfort. Maybe, when he doesn’t need Eames’ help anymore, he’ll cover up and hide away his scars.

Eames sits back in the shower. He’s drenched, his shirt sticks to his skin and his hair drips in his eyes. (It’s longer now, way longer than he’s used to having it. But between saving Arthur, watching Arthur, and taking care of Arthur, going to the barber isn’t high on his list.)

Eames puts away the small towel he washed Arthur with and leans up, tracing with his hands over Arthur’s arms and waist, holding eye-contact to make sure it’s okay, down to his thighs and legs. Softly, gently. He’s too thin and littered with damage but he’s Arthur and Arthur’s beautiful and lovely and Eames almost loses it to the thought that he can do this. Touch Arthur. Arthur isn’t dead. Arthur is here.

Arthur smiles softly at Eames. It’s a sad smile and that just won’t do.

“You’re beautiful,” Eames says honestly, voice low to match the tone between them.

Arthur shakes his head. “I’m damaged, but I survived.”

“You’re survived and you’re beautiful. You’ll always be beautiful to me, no matter what happens to you.”

Arthur shakes his head again, but then a thoughtful expression fills his face. “So, I could pull a full Voldemort and you’ll still get it up for me?”

Eames laughs with him, because that’s what Arthur wanted.

He drops the subject, helping Arthur out of his seat while keeping a running commentary about the merits of different showers in different countries. But Eames keeps the moment tucked away for later. There is a new trend growing between them, Arthur shrugging off things that clearly bother him with a joke and a smile. Eames shudders internally. He knows where Arthur got that coping mechanism from, and he has personal experience that laughing your pain away only spells disaster in the future.

\--

Over the following days, the quiet stays. A tension grows between them like a gathering wind and Eames tries to prepare himself for the coming storm. Arthur retreats into himself, harsh snapping replaces the forced jokes with noticeable acceleration and soon Eames gets used to being glared at during his daily routine.

Eames takes it, because he understands why Arthur is angry. There are too many things Arthur can’t do for himself. Eames wakes him up every day to change his bandages and help him to the toilet. He prepares easily digestible food for him when he’s safely put back into bed. Arthur can’t watch television or read, any kind of stimulation gives him a headache. Arthur isn’t the kind to sit still and do nothing. Even when he’s chained to a desk for hours at a time, he’s always keeping himself busy with research or organising. Eames knows how hard this sea of nothing is for him. Eames doesn’t know how to help. Every attempt at conversation gets shut down with a scathing remark. So Eames keeps still, goes through the motions of care, and waits.

Arthur has never asked him to sleep on the sofa, in the same way he never asks for the help he needs. Eames took the hint after the first night, but it still chafes at him. The distance hurts in its familiarity, although Eames doesn’t know if it reminds him of the time he thought he lost Arthur, or of the time he didn’t have him yet.

Despite the divided arrangement, Eames knows about the nightmares; the walls are thin. Arthur doesn’t yell or scream but he sobs, and it takes everything out of Eames not to rush in. He thinks his comfort wouldn’t be welcomed.

Eames wakes again just before Arthur starts his nocturnal suffering, and he breathes through it, clenching his blanket in his hands. The night allows for thoughts he avoids during the day, a fear that despite Arthur’s safety he’ll never truly feel safe, and that their past experiences have done permanent damage to Arthur and their marriage both.

Arthur eventually quiets down, and Eames falls back into a peaceless sleep, hoping the next morning will grant them a little step forward, but not believing it for a second.

\--

Arthur scowls at his breakfast. It’s a glass of milk, a piece of plain white bread, and a small tub of yogurt.

“Sorry, darling. I don’t want to upset your stomach right now,” Eames says, knowing explaining it won’t help, but doing it anyway.

“How long?” Arthur snaps.

“What?”

“How long until this ends – the food. When can I eat normally again?” Arthur asks tensely, looking up from his tray with a glare.

Eames holds up his hands placatingly. “I don’t know, love,” he sighs. “The doctors just said I should be cautious and slowly introduce new substances. We still don’t know the lasting medical consequences. It could take months, or weeks, or even days. Depending on how you react to the food over time.”

Arthur narrows his eyes. “Why didn’t I know any of this? Why haven’t we started experimenting with new things yet?”

Eames starts to feel like he’s regressed to a mark, stuck being interrogated by a criminal out for blood. The storm has finally arrived.

“You were–” Eames tries, “in the hospital, I just. I can do this for you. You don’t need to worry about it.”

“Worry about it?” Arthur says scathing, sitting up straight. “I don’t need to fucking worry about it? Eames, this is my body, remember? I can’t fucking piss by myself and now you don’t allow me to know why I’m eating what? Is there anything I’m still allowed to think about, or do I need your permission to breathe too?”

Arthur is livid. His words cut like hot knives through Eames’ chest. Eames tries to stay calm and not collapse in the wrath of fire in Arthur’s tone, but he doesn’t know how successful he is. Arthur doesn’t seem to notice anyway.

“Fuck you, Eames,” Arthur yells now. He throws the tray to the ground, the milk bleeds over the ground and Eames tries to convince himself it isn’t blood.

“How can I know you’re not fucking lying about all of this. Are you lying to me, Eames? Is this all an attempt to keep me weak? It is isn’t it,” Arthur rants.

Eames looks at Arthur’s face and flinches at the pure disgust lighting it up in ugly red.

“You’re no better than them,” Arthur spits. “You’re worse. I trusted you.”

Eames steps back but he’s disorientated and his head hurts and he falls to his knees. His trousers are soaked in milk- _It’s not Arthur’s blood. It’s not. He’s not dying anymore. Arthur is safe. He just hates you now._

There is a wail of despair and Eames is shocked to discover that it isn’t him but Arthur.

A sob gets Eames to look up, and he finds Arthur sunken down in his bed. He looks devastated. His eyes are following Eames’s every breath.

“Eames, Eames, Eames,” Arthur chokes. “What am I saying. What the fuck am I saying.”

Arthur takes a ragged breath. “Eames. I’m so sorry. You’re not them. I know you’re not. I’m so sorry.”

Eames nods, dazed, and belatedly remembers to breathe.

“I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. You take care of me. You love me. I know that. I’m so fucking sorry,” Arthur continues like the words are ripped out of him. He sounds like every breath is painful, and Eames is torn by wanting him to stop from hurting himself and never wanting him to stop talking.

“Eames,” Arthur says. “Can you come here? I can’t come to you. It’s-” Arthur closes his eyes. “- It’s okay if you don’t want to. If you don’t want to see me right now. That’s your right. It’s okay.”

Eames changes his mind and never wants to hear Arthur speaking when he sounds so broken; lost and resigned to his fate. Eames regains his control over his legs and hoists himself forward, kneeling next to Arthur’s bed, who is watching him like he’s surprised Eames doesn’t take his offer and leave.

Tentatively, Arthur reaches out and places a cold hand on Eames’ jaw. He still looks so hurt, but a small smile breaks through when Eames leans into it and softly kisses his palm.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur whispers earnestly, and Eames nods into his hand.

Eames rests his head on Arthur’s lap, and they calm down together, drawing deep breaths until their hearts slow.

“I love you, darling. I love you so much. I’d do anything for you,” Eames says when he finds his voice again, hidden carefully after the ever growing fear of fucking this up forever.

Arthur makes another broken sound, but doesn’t move his hands out Eames’ hair. “I know you do. I love you. That never changed,” Arthur sighs. “ I’m... bad, Eames. I’m ruined. You don’t deserve any of this.”

Eames tries to protest, but Arthur quiets him with a gentle tug at his hair.

“I wanted to add,” Arthur continues. “That despite not deserving it, I know I can’t convince you to leave this mess either.”

Eames nods.

“We have to do better,” Arthur says. “We’re married for fuck’s sake. When did communication become so hard?”

Eames looks up to see Arthur smile sadly at him. “I’m terrified of doing something wrong, darling. It was easier to stop talking than risk saying the wrong thing.”

Arthur nods, and contemplates that. “I felt like you only see me as your patient, as your burden. Not as your husband. I’m your husband.”

“You are, dove. You are,” Eames breathes.

Arthur smiles a little wider this time. “We need to talk, about all of this. Work out how we’ll get through this. Together.”

“As a team,” Eames says, matching Arthur’s smile.

Arthur leans forward and kisses him chastely for that, surprising Eames so much he can’t react to it.

“We’ll talk, but not today,” Arthur says. “I’m kind of drained already, and I want to be better this time, not revert back into anger and fear. I didn’t sleep too well either.”

Eames hums in agreement, relieved Arthur suggested the time out, both for Arthur’s care and his own sake. Eames needs some time to recover from everything Arthur said.

Arthur glances at the mess at the floor and grimaces. “I’ll also need new breakfast. I’m sorry.”

“You’ve apologized enough, darling,” Eames quips carefully. “I’ll get you some.”

“Thank you, Eames,” Arthur says. “Thank you, for everything.”

Eames stands up and darts in for a kiss himself, cherishing how Arthur’s face splits into a smile when he does. “Anything for you, my dear husband.”

Arthur rolls his eyes at him, but his smile widens, so Eames calls his gamble a success.

Eames leaves his side reluctantly, but Arthur calls him back just before he exits the room.

“And Eames, if you want, you can read here, after. Next to me, in bed. If you want.”

“Of course, darling. I would be happy to.”

So Eames goes downstairs for another breakfast, and adds some blueberries to the yogurt he makes. Running their conversation over in his head. Food is apparently more important than even Eames expected it to be, and Arthur has a point. He’s being too careful, thinking in medical caution instead of Arthur’s experience. He’ll need to eat in small portions, but variation shouldn’t hurt. Eames makes a mental note to get some groceries when he gets the chance. Arthur deserves some pampering after all this, and Eames has much to apologize for.

With the tension released, Eames is surprised how easily they flow back into something more comfortable, something more positive. Arthur talks. He starts conversations; about the book Eames is reading; about a suitcase he lost on a plane six months ago; about the weather he can see through his windows; about the neighbor who has a piano and plays Bach every morning like clockwork. The words spill out of him like he’s been holding onto them all this time, all the thoughts he had to keep to himself because he thought Eames wasn’t interested, too focused on caring for Arthur to actually care _about_ him. Like they agreed, they don’t get into their problems deeply, but they don’t skirt around them either. Arthur squeezes his hand when Eames flinches because Arthur offhandedly mentions worrying about a scar Nikes made with a burning cigarette. And Eames sits closer when Arthur remembers he won’t be able to wear a suit anytime soon, if he wants to put it on himself.

Eames knows suggesting helping him into one won’t help. Arthur’s suits are a symbol of his competence, of his independent nature. The day Arthur can wear a suit will be the same day he can dress himself.

Eames does groceries while Arthur takes a nap later in the day, but when he comes back neither of them are any more rested. Arthur asks Eames to help him shower, and Eames smiles and agrees readily. Eames pulls the chair out of the shower, to Arthur’s visible surprise, and sheds his clothes, and helps Arthur out of his. Arthur leans against Eames while they share the warm stream of water together, pressed against each other. Arthur hums when Eames carefully soaps him up, touching every inch of skin not covered in bandages. Eames washes the soap off them both, and Arthur spends the time kissing Eames where he’s clean.

Eames moans involuntarily when Arthur bites at his collarbone, suddenly very conscious of Arthur’s cock pressing against his thigh. It’s not fully hard yet, but it seems like it will be soon, if Arthur’s mischievous smile is anything to go by. Eames isn’t far behind him.

“Are you sure, darling?” Eames can’t help but ask, fragments of the notebook flash through his mind.

Arthur doesn’t lose his smile. He nods and catches one of Eames hands, tugging it impatiently. “I missed this. I missed you. I missed us. My leg is good for another five minutes, and I know for a fact I won’t last that long.”

“Okay, love,” Eames says, before catching him in a kiss. “Give me two.”

Arthur’s laugh grows into a strangled moan when Eames closes his hand over his cock, stabilizing them with another hand around his waist. Eames tries to go slow, but Arthur glares at him until he speeds up and is rewarded with a deep, desperate kiss.

It indeed doesn’t take very long. Arthur lets out keening moans when he comes. They make Eames close to losing it himself already, which is why he immediately goes off when Arthur tightly wraps his hand around Eames’ straining cock and bites his collarbone simultaneously.

Arthur laughs. “I don’t know if I’m disappointed with how fast that was, or insanely happy that it finally happened.”

Eames smiles. “We have all the time in the world to get our stamina back, darling. I, for one, am always open for another experiment.”

“Good to know,” Arthur says.

They leave the bathroom in a comfortable silence, going through the motions of replacing the bandages and changing into clothes for the night.

Eames hesitates when he helps Arthur into bed, but before he can step away, Arthur catches him in a kiss.

“Do you want to sleep here?” Arthur murmurs when he pulls back.

Eames nods.

“Good. I want you here too.”

Eames feels like he’s floating as he slips in next to Arthur.

Arthur twists to face him carefully. “I have nightmares. I’m sorry if I wake you.”

“It’s okay darling. I’m already happy just to be here.”

Arthur’s smile is barely visible in the dark.

“I love you,” Arthur says.

“I love you too, darling,” Eames replies.

Eames sinks into a slow content tired. A sudden thought catches him just before he falls asleep. “I’m going to make you the best breakfast tomorrow.”

Arthur chuckles softly. “Okay.”

“You’ll see,” Eames murmurs.

“I will,” Arthur says. “Go sleep, love.”

Eames does, with a smile on his face.

\--

“Rise and shine, darling,” Eames opens up the curtains with a flourish, allowing the room to bathe in sunlight. Arthur groans and hides his head under the blankets. Eames laughs at him, and tugs them away to reveal his grumpy face squinting in the light.

“There you are, love. No hiding,” Eames says with a smile. Arthur pouts.

“No, no,” Eames scolds. “Look what I’ve got.” Eames turns around and reveals a tray filled to the brim with plates and cups. “You’re right, we can try some other foods out. We’ll be careful, but we can try.”

Arthur props himself up on his elbow carefully and doesn’t hide his smile as he takes in Eames’ offer. “Fruit salad, smoothie, scones, coffee.”

He looks up and beams softly at Eames, and Eames revels in the warmth of it. _He thought he lost this yesterday, for a heartstopping second. But he didn’t. He’s going to make sure he never loses him._

“All of my favorite things,” Arthur says, with a tone that says he suspects what Eames is thinking. He doesn’t ask. Not yet. Eames is glad.

Eames pushes the maroon thoughts away and instead focuses on Arthur’s dimples, on making Arthur happy. That’s been his life’s goal for so long anyway, it feels good and familiar to fall back into it. “All your favorite things?”

Arthur laughs at the tease and shakes his head. “No. There is something missing...”

“Oh no. What is it? Can I help?” Eames says, mock–shocked, pressing his free hand to his chest.

Arthur laughs again and rolls his eyes. “Come here, you idiot.”

“Gladly,” Eames says while he carefully puts the tray away and crawls over. He cradles Arthur’s head, avoiding the bandages around his neck as he traces his jaw reverently.

“Kiss me already,” Arthur murmurs.

Eames doesn’t let him tell him twice.

They will talk today. Eames will tell him about the notebook. Arthur will tell him what he needs of Eames. They’ll get through this together.

But they have time, and they have the right to enjoy each other. So Eames kisses Arthur again and again, smiling at Arthur’s eagerness. They’ll kiss and eat and love and they aren’t alone.

Never alone.

**Author's Note:**

> Squares: Rescue from danger, Pampering, Cuddeling, Darkness. 
> 
> I tried. 
> 
> I chose not to add a Major warning to the fic because everything going on is not very graphic, but if someone thinks there should be one there I'll change it. 
> 
> If any of you are curious how Arthur's recovery will go, what his reaction will be to the notebook and the fact that Eames knows, and what else these two went through; you're in luck! I'm planning to write a part two after the bingo dust settles. It's called Words To Burn.
> 
> Hope to see you then! 
> 
> Subscribe to the series if you want to stay updated :)


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